STINT

     My last haircut in the South was from a man simply known as Stint. He’d cut my hair since I was seven and I thought going to him before I headed North would be some kind of symbolic rite of passage. The wooly, half-brained Neanderthal goes clean into an unknown world.
     Stint was always in the center chair, reading a newspaper, biding his time until the next customer came along. The barber chairs on either side were always empty when I came in, yet the stations were fully stocked and the nameplates always read "Mr. Raley" and "Mr. Hardeman." I never saw either of these men in my lifetime, though I’m sure it was just a strange coincidence that my arrival each time into Stint’s somehow juxtaposed their fishing trips or hunting expeditions or whatever barbers did on their days off. Stint was always there as far as I knew. And his was the only station without a nameplate.
     When I arrived that day, the bell at the top of the door rang and Stint got up, folded his paper under his arm and patted the chair as he always had. Tissue paper tied around my neck, dropcloth over my body, a couple of pumps at the chair’s base, sending it bouncing up two, three, then four inches. Standard routine.
     "Whatcha’ needin’ today?" Stint would say.
     "Close on the sides and back," I’d remark.
     This was the most Stint ever said to me and my response was always the same. A script that never changed.  No small talk. No personal stuff. Another customer, another haircut, no recollection of the regulars.
     Halfway through the procedure, as Stint started up the shaving cream machine, a distant school bell echoed its way into Stint’s. By the time he’d lathered up the back of my neck, a steady line of elementary school kids ran by in packs of ten or so, then five, heading home.
     Stint began taking the straight razor to my neck, then stopped as a black child knelt down in front of the shop, tying his shoelace.
     "Damn," he said, "I tell ya’, those nigras’ are downright adorable at that age. They’re swarmin’ that school like a buncha’ cockroaches, though. Mama’s just a’poppin’ ‘em out like possums. That lil’ nigra’ there probably don’t even know his daddy neither. Goddamn shame is what it is. Daddy’s probably in jail or dealin’ drugs somewhere. And no matter how straight ‘n’ narrow that boy lives his life, good grades and whatnot, he’ll just wind up like his daddy, knockin’ up five or six of those bubble-ass nigra’ girls. It’s in the blood, y’see? Nigra’ blood ain’t like mine or yours. Got that wild Africa blood pourin’ through ‘em. Can’t shake it, no matter how hard they try. Well, who knows? Maybe that lil’ nigra’ boy’ll grow up to be the next Tiger Woods or Bo Jackson or Willie Mayes. I doubt it, though."
     I’m speechless as he finishes my neck, not even a polite "yeah, well" or "uh-huh" from me in the chair. I was leaving this place for good, and one, well-thought-out response from some customer couldn’t have changed this old man’s mind and I knew that.
     All I had was a ten and even though the cut was only $5, I took the other five from his wrinkled hand. I couldn’t tip him. It might’ve been the polite thing to do, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.  I was tired of being polite anyway.
     Some stands are subtle.




-SLL